


Veronal

by okapi



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Massage, Object Insertion, Object Penetration, Prostate Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26194867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Bertie can't sleep. Jeeves helps.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 10
Kudos: 76
Collections: Season of Kink





	Veronal

**Author's Note:**

> For my Season of Kink bingo N-1: object penetration.

“Jeeves, have we any veronal in the cupboards?”

I posed the question as soon as my scalp was once more attached to my head and powers of speech at my disposal. The effects of Jeeves’ pick-me-up elixirs are, I believe, ground well-trodden in my narratives, but as miraculous as they are, they aren’t meant to be a diet staple, and I had just thrown back number three in as many days. 

Jeeves was concerned. One brow crinkled almost imperceptibly. “I purchased some two days ago, sir.”

“It’s a rummy thing, Jeeves, to feel as rotten as I do without the revelry to go with it. I just can’t seem to fall asleep.” I poked at my eggs and b. with a fraction more enthusiasm than when Jeeves had first presented them upon the tray. That I was breaking my fast in bed at all was a testament to my weakened condition. “I loathe the idea of taking a chemical soporific, uh, that is the word I want, isn’t it, Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought it might be. As I said, I am loath to take one, but I don’t see any other course. It’s a pity. I suppose you’ll soon be dragging me out of Limehouse dens at dawn and thwarting my attempts to spike of my morning tea with the Green Fairy.”

“Perhaps it shan’t come to that, sir.”

“No?” I tossed him a look, then returned to my brooding. “You’re lucky, Jeeves. You’ve enjoyed nine hours of the dreamless while I’ve been rolling in this bed like suckling pig on a stick. You’re the only occupier of this flat. Me? I’m just haunting it.” 

“This evening, sir, would you permit me to try an alternative treatment? If it is effective, the veronal may not be required.”

“Alternative?”

“Massage, sir.” Jeeves lifted his mitts.

“Like at the bath?”

“A variation on that theme.”

I gave the idea a moment’s consideration and shrugged. “Why not?” I sighed wearily, which was the only type of sigh I could manage under the circs. “Put my corpus delicti in your hands? I already put my household, my wardrobe, and my continued state of bachelorhood in them.”

Jeeves had the decency to go a bit stuffed frog at this declaration, but I was too knackered to care. It’s difficult to keep a stiff upper lip when you keep yawning like an abyss.

I have no idea how I passed the day. I think I simply wandered listlessly from room to room like a family ghost at the old homestead after the family’s packed up for a week at Brighton.

Supper included some kind of soup, but whether thick or clear, I don’t recall. I do remember contemplating a filet of sole with much more philosophy than appetite. I don’t even recollect the bath, but at last I was in my bedroom, being peeled out of my dressing gown and guided, as naked as Adam, into my own bed. The covers were pulled back and there was a layer of towels atop the sheets.

I had the vague sense that I was about to be embalmed, perhaps it was the rustling of an extraordinarily efficient manservant stripping to shirtsleeves and then rolling his cuffs as if he were absolutely getting down to the business of putting the pharaoh in the tomb. I found the notion didn’t disturb me even half as much as it should have.

But just as I was about to caution ‘don’t forget the curse,’ Jeeves was touching me, and dear me, what ensued was the fleshy cousin of the Soul’s Awakening, viz. his digits burrowed into the Wooster musculature like missionary termites into the savage woodwork. They performed their mysterious manipulations until I was, well, not to put too fine a point on it, putty in his hands.

“To paraphrase a clever chappie, Jeeves,” I burbled, “the dough-kneading world lost a fine set of fingers when you eschewed bread-making.”

“I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir.”

A thought knitted as Jeeves unraveled me. Though his ministrations were corkin’ to an nth degree, they were not precisely of a soporific character. The knots, the tension, the malaise of the past three days were definitely ebbing, but other parts of my anatomy, or that is to say, one part, specifically, was rising to the occasion.

And then I was being turned over, like a fish on a slab, and any doubt as to the effect of Jeeves’ massage on the pride of the Wooster vanished like a rabbit in a hat.

Like any good Englishman, I ignore the elephant, or perhaps the elephant’s trunk, though I’ve never been able to pick up peanuts with mine, that’s Freddie Widgeon’s turf, in the room, and tried to make conversation as Jeeves’ worked the hands, moving with hard strokes up the arm to the shoulder and chest.

“Do this often, Jeeves?”

“No, sir. This is my inaugural effort. I learned of the technique at the Junior Ganymede Club. More than one of my peers has spoken of its efficacy.”

“Ah, ye olde trade secret.”

“Precisely, sir. Now, you are at liberty, at any point, to object, but what follows is the part that my colleagues report ensures the treatment’s success.” He held my gaze, the question heavy in those beautiful blue e’s.

“Carry on, Jeeves.”

He gave a nod, snapped on a pair of gloves, and went to work, carefully, gently, mining the Wooster arse for gold.

“Lord, love a duck,” I moaned as he stretched the sitter, “the minutes of your valet society’s monthly meetings must be something the other side of actionable.”

“They are confidential, sir.”

“Under lock and key, too, I hope?”

“Naturally.”

The Wooster pins bent and fell open as Jeeves worked. Then he stopped working.

I wanted to give the stand a tug. I was certain only one would send me spraying like a fountain.

But I waited.

The last thing I expected was to hear a buzzing and Jeeves standing over me with an apparatus in his hand.

My original notion of being entombed resurfaced.

“Jeeves, are you going to pull my negligible brain out my nose with that thing?” I’d seen the instruments that were used for such operations that time Aunt Agatha made me take Thos to the British Museum.

“Only metaphorically, sir. If you’ll allow me to demonstrate…”

He brushed the Wooster tum with the magic wand. It was a pleasant vibration, stronger than a cat’s purr but milder than the two-seater when the transmission’s on the blink.

Then he moved it to the Wooster nips.

“Jesus wept!”

And so did my tumescence, a few tears of tortured neglect.

“Jeeves, I don’t know how much more of this treatment I can stand,” I croaked.

“The end is nigh, sir.”

No truer words spoken.

The buzzing stopped. The apparatus disappeared from view.

The Wooster sitter filled with something cooler than a gentleman’s gentleman’s index finger, like a preux chevalier with sword drawn, it moved slowly, step by cautious step, deeper into the dragon’s lair.

The buzzing resumed. The beast awoke.

My eyes rolled back in my head, my prick gave a broken Hallelujah, and I promptly fell asleep.

* * *

“Jeeves!” I cried when he shimmered in with my morning tea. “That was the stuff to give the troops!”

“I’m very glad to hear it, sir.”

I sat up, marveling, silently, for it would be unseemly to make a remark, at how Jeeves had got me tucked snugly into my bed and into my heliotrope pyjamas after my lights had gone out. 

I took a refreshing sip and sighed.

“Oh, Jeeves, throw that veronal out of the window, what?”

“I have already done so, sir,” he replied with a certain twinkle in his eye before turning and floating out the room.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you comment, please be kind.


End file.
